


Oblivion

by emynii, ObliObla



Series: Nia & Obli's Whumptober 2019 [3]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Gen, Hurt Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Stars, Whump, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 22:49:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20881952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emynii/pseuds/emynii, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: Here, so close to the source of his imprisonment, he is liberated. For a time.For the Whumptober prompt: delirium





	Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings are in the end notes.

It hurts too much to stop.

_ The needle tears a hole, _the song says, though Lucifer hasn’t touched the keys in weeks, in months, in… What does time mean to an immortal? What are years but the numbering of wrinkles, of gray hairs—counted as stars were counted, once, when the universe was young—while he is hale and whole? Blood drips from the hole. It shines in the moonlight, or in the streetlights.

It’s hard to tell anymore.

A press, a _ press_, and freedom drips through his veins. It is an ecstasy he’s always been denied. Here, so close to the source of his imprisonment, he is liberated. For a time.

The pleasure is pure as hellfire as he falls back onto the roof tiles and tips his head up. The stars aren’t visible from so far down in darkness and mundanity, but with incandescence singing in his blood, he can make himself believe in the light. What a wonder that in this has the Devil finally found faith.

She moves below him. He can hear, through the thrumming of starlight, a door shut, a faucet turn on. A bath, he supposes, then curses himself for it. This thing is not for him to imagine. This place is not for him to dwell, but he has bound his soul to hers—_someone has bound it for him_—and he cannot bear to be withdrawn.

But he is.

He presses the needle in again, deeper, wishing for the high to last just a little bit longer, wishing his celestial metabolism dead with his invulnerability. Wishing for the sort of oblivion only Lethe waters can bring. Wishing, wishing, _ wishing. _

_ When you wish upon a star _…

But he has fallen, and the stars are denied to him. Denied by the same humanity he so envies. He can’t see them when his eyes are open, so he lets them fall, too. Maybe there is light yet to find in darkness.

He is thinking too much.

He came here to _ stop _ thinking, but he can’t make the whispers in his brain cease. She's gotten into the bath, and the visions come to him unasked for, _ unwanted _. But that’s a lie, and he is many things, but a liar isn’t one of them.

It’s everything he wants. Everything he cannot have.

The _ go _ ’s, the _ leave me alone_’s assail him, and he reaches into his jacket for his flask. His hands are shaking—they always shake when he’s near her—but most of the sweet nectar reaches his mouth, burns down his throat, and _ oh _, he’s missed that feeling too.

When he’s alone, there’s nothing left to burn but himself.

But isn’t he alone?

The flask slips from his trembling fingers and slides down the roof. _ Tick, tick, tick, _down the tiles—like a clock, counting out the days, the months, the years.

_ Thud. _

Fallen to the ground. Fallen like him—with as little impact. What would really happen, after all, if he were to let himself fall again? He picks up the needle and presses it home. _ Home _. This isn’t home, simply some fantasy, some nightmare. She winces, down in her bath, and he imagines the blood spreading through the water from the shaving cut. The blood dripping down his arm from where the needle has torn.

But he cannot let her be the unwitting facilitator of his homecoming.

It is this conclusion he reaches over and over again. He is too vainglorious a bastard to admit his defeat, but so, too, is he far too much a coward to force his own hand. She must never find him, must never discover the liberties he takes, so close and yet so, _ so _ far away. So he gathers his instruments of torture, of pleasure, of all the things he cannot say, and abandons his sweet delirium to cold reality. Abandons his stars, as he always has. It is, after all, the least he can do.

It’s all he has left.

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings: References to suicide


End file.
